


Crowley's Game

by WareWolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley is a bad loser but a worse winner!, Heaps and heaps of sexual innuendo on Crowley's part towards Bobby, M/M, Season 6 AU Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WareWolf/pseuds/WareWolf
Summary: After that whole mess with "borrowing" Bobby's soul and having to be threatened most direly with destruction of his mortal bones, Crowley can't stop thinking about the hunter and goes back to visit him.  Bobby isn't as adverse to this idea as Crowley had expected, even when the King of Hell wants to play a game on his birthday.
Relationships: Crowley/Bobby Singer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	Crowley's Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Fierce Beast](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Fierce+Beast).



> This is a feelgood work featuring Crowley, King of Hell, for once being included in a social event and having people be nice (sort of) to him. Bobby Singer is a rough but kind-hearted soul, even to a demon who's got a crush on him.

“It’s too damn late,” Bobby Singer shouted, as he made his reluctant way to his front door. It could be Jody or the boys or Rufus, he reasoned; someone to whom he _would_ open the door, though he’d still give them what for. The night wind was a sudden chill on him as he opened the door and glared at the person who stood there, hand raised theatrically as though to knock again. “You. Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you came on to my property again?”

“I believe my excellent ass and margaritas were mentioned?” Crowley, King of Hell, smiled with a good imitation of innocence. “But there was a certain deal after that point….”

“Won’t help you to remind me of that,” Bobby said grimly. “This house is warded against you and I also got this.” He brought his right hand into view and with it the shotgun. Very deliberately, he had not taken a step beyond his own threshold. Crowley might carry on like an idiot but you took a demon seriously, particularly one as powerful as this. “I don’t care what you think your business is, you go. Now!”

Crowley looked intensely back at the angry hunter. He had ported from Hell only a few minutes earlier, with no Crossroads work on his agenda at all. This area of the Earth plane was particularly cold and unwelcoming this night, but Crowley didn’t care. He was away from Hell and that was enough. He was _tired_ , gut tired and longed for a chance to rest, to sleep even, though he no longer required sleep. In Hell, that only made you vulnerable and that got you torn apart, again and again. That was Hell. Never able to rest.

He was King now and no longer just of the Crossroads. He’d been surprised to find he missed his work. He missed the _game_ of it, enticing and trapping the foolish mortal, dangling the bait until, catlike, he could close his claws upon the precious, fragile substance they called a soul. Politics and torture just didn’t measure up, no matter how many entrails you pulled out.

That had led him to thinking of Bobby Singer. The hunter’s growling defiance still made him smile and his astonished, instinctive thanks at the return of his ability to walk had given Crowley a brief tinge of happiness. Things had soured between them, of course, humans just didn’t understand the complexities of life as demons did. But still, he thought of him. And that thought had brought him here to Bobby’s door, looking at the lights inside and wondering what the hunter was doing.

Now, as he’d known he would, he was looking down the barrels of that blasted shotgun once more. No doubt fully loaded with rock salt. Bobby Singer was nothing if not prepared. _But;_ he was also looking at Bobby, who wore only a hastily donned robe, as though Crowley had caught him on the way to bed.

“Well, it was good to talk to you again, Robert,” he said, noting the slight rise of the shotgun’s business end. He briefly considered the obvious innuendo but dismissed it. This was a brand new Armani suit, after all. He lifted a hand that now had a bottle in it. “I’ll leave you this anyway.” He released its neck and the bottle of Glenmorangie Signet floated sedately down to sit at Bobby’s feet, where the hunter looked bemusedly at it.

“You got me booze?”

“It was the least I could do,” Crowley said lightly.

“Fine, you can come in,” Bobby sighed. “Grab your bottle. I got to put some clothes on.” He pulled his robe more closely about himself, much to Crowley’s disappointment, but he heroically refrained from comment. 

He waited at the kitchen table as directed until Bobby came back, now in jeans and sweatshirt, giving him a suspicious look as though suspecting him of some evil deed committed in the last five minutes. The hunter got two glasses, cracked the bottle with practised skill and poured. There was a moment’s respectful silence as both savoured the single malt.

“That’s good stuff,” Bobby commended it at last. Then with a stern look in his direction. “You only steal the best, right?”

“Absolutely, Robert.”

Crowley closed his eyes briefly.

“Borin’ you, am I?”

The demon smiled. He looked about at the rather cluttered kitchen, about as devoid of style as a room could get, then back at Bobby. He didn’t think he could explain his present sense of comfort, even to himself. “You could never bore me.” A few moments later, he stood and Bobby glanced at him in surprise.

“You leavin’ already?”

“Before I outlast my welcome, darling. Don’t worry, I will be back.”

*

This time, Bobby half guessed who it would be. He was surprised the demon knocked on the door, though; he’d gone to the trouble of removing the personal warding, after all. When he opened it, though, he was startled by Crowley’s expression and took a closer look. “Are you cryin’? On my freaking doorstep?”

“Then ask me in, Robert,” Crowley said. He drew a blood-red handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his eyes. Bobby muttered and opened the door wider for him. 

“I saved that Scotch,” he offered, leading the way and hearing a faint sniff that worried him more than it should. “Are you okay? No – we’ll use the armchairs You sit, I’ll get the stuff.”

This room was Bobby’s library and living area, Crowley deduced, or maybe more taken over by books than being a planned library. The two armchairs were a control area, with a low table, also book-laden, between them on which Bobby placed the bottle and glasses. Crowley blew his nose and sat down where Bobby indicated. 

“What’s got you stirred up?” Bobby asked, almost gently, as he picked up his own glass and tilted it to watch the amber liquid move.

“My birthday.”

“Oh. You still have birthdays? Demons, I mean?”

“My original birthday,” Crowley said with dignity. “Don’t wish me a happy birthday, Robert, it’s never that. Before I died, I used to have a tradition of going out and getting very, very drunk on my birthday, so I couldn’t remember anything. Now, of course, it takes so much more work to get drunk as a demon.”

“So you’re crying because you can’t get as drunk as you want?”

“I’m not _crying._ ”

Bobby shook his head slightly. “What do you want to do for your birthday then?” he asked and quickly added, “No freaky stuff.”

“What if that’s what I – all right, Robert.” Crowley sat back, sipped his Scotch and considered the question. “I would like to play a game with friends. Drinks, good cheer, absolutely no talking about work.”

“What kinda game we talking about?” the hunter asked dubiously. “I got a few board games, nothing fancy. Monopoly somewhere…. Deck of cards. I’m not playin’ poker with you, though, I’d lose my damn shirt. Hang on, I know, wait a few while I find it. Sam gave it to me a few years back.” He got up and began searching the overladen bookshelves against the walls and after a few minutes gave an “Ah hah!” of satisfaction and brought back a brightly coloured cardboard box. “Ticket to Ride Europe. You ever play?” Crowley shook his head, intrigued despite himself. “Sam said there’s one for the USA but he couldn’t find it at the time, kept promisin’ to get it for me but anyway, this one’s about your neck of the woods. You build rail lines, see, between cities and that gets you points. That do the job?”

“Why not? And about the friends?”

They looked at one another and Bobby grinned, raising his eyebrows. Crowley groaned theatrically. “Oh no.”

“Well, do you _have_ any actual friends?”

“You may have a point, Robert.”

Still grinning, Bobby pulled a cell phone from his jeans pocket. “I’d better be the one to explain this to Sam and Dean.” Crowley listened, hearing the raised voice – Dean, he thought – at the other end of the phone. Presently Bobby shut the phone. “Well, happens they’ll be down this way in a couple of days, were gonna call in on me Thursday night. They think I’m busting their balls, by the way, so they’ll be a bit surprised when they see you really are here. _If_ you show up.”

“Oh, I’ll be here, Robert.”

*

“Didn’t think you would be here,” Bobby Singer said, opening the door. There was near darkness behind him, though Crowley could see the kitchen lights were on. “Bulb’s gone in the hall. Gonna fix it tomorrow, maybe, I keep forgetting. C’mon in.”

Crowley did, moving a little fast, maybe. He couldn’t really get past the edgy feeling that he was heading into a Devil’s Trap, that he couldn’t _really_ be invited into a hunter’s house with no ill intent. It had everything prickling most uncomfortably! Whatever the reason, his unease caused him to bump right into Bobby, who hadn’t moved out of the way yet and Crowley let out a squeak of mild surprise.

Hearing it, Bobby laughed. “It’s okay,” he said, and put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Relax. It’s not an ambush.”

“You read my mind, Robert.”

“Hope not, no offence meant.”

“Er, none taken.” The hand squeezed his shoulder lightly. In the near dark, Crowley stood very still. He knew, as surely as he knew anything, that to break _this_ spell with movement would mean that Bobby would veer off, would not maintain the will and the curiosity to continue what he was doing. Which was to simply run his fingers lightly over Crowley’s shoulder to his lapel as though to check the quality of the material and glance over to meet his eyes.

“Do I pass muster, Robert?” Crowley asked very quietly, still not moving. He could hear in the distance the sound of the Impala’s engine, but it was not yet audible to Bobby.

He longed for more, much more, but yet this fragile connection held him and fed him in spirit, more than he had known in so many years. Bobby’s hand, rough with age and strength, felt very warm and close as he held Crowley’s shoulder.

“You hear something? Yep, that’s them.”

“With the usual wonderful Winchester timing,” Crowley muttered and Bobby laughed. But he didn’t take his hand away, as Crowley had thought he would, but instead pulled the surprised demon into a hug, a real hug up close, settling both his hands on Crowley’s back.

“There’s other times, don’t worry. Tonight’s your birthday – yeah, I know you said it was the other night – but officially it’s now. I told ‘em, no dumping on you tonight. But don’t you wind ‘em up too much either, Crowley; you do and they get to retaliate.”

“Mmm,” Crowley said, daring to lean his head against Bobby’s chest, closing his eyes while the elder hunter held him. He didn’t try to look up to see Bobby’s expression, but he sensed acceptance in the way Bobby slowly patted his back and let Crowley rest against him. He felt so warm and strong and vital that Crowley felt he could remain there forever. He stayed there right up until they heard Sam and Dean’s voices outside and the quick, impatient rattle on the door and Bobby gave him a final pat before stepping away.

“C’mon.” His voice was quiet, even _fond_ , Crowley thought; could he have managed _not_ to foul this up? He wanted it so much, it seemed inevitable that fates would foil him. “We got some railway empires to build.”

*

Bobby caught Sam and Dean staring at him about as much as they looked at Crowley in continuing disbelief. It kind of put him off his game, tell the truth, about as much as Crowley sneaking looks at his cards. The demon seemed quite content, sitting beside Bobby at the kitchen table and shooting the occasional smirk at Sam or Dean.

“So which birthday is it?” Dean demanded at one point. “Didn’t you lose count over the hundreds of fucking years since a hellhound hauled you Below?”

“A gentleman never tells, Squirrel.” He took the deck, removed some cards, smiled and nodded to Bobby. “Your turn, Robert.”

"Did you take two cards or three?” Bobby asked suspiciously, watching Crowley fan out his very extensive-looking hand.

“Just take your turn, Bobby, you’re never going to know,” Sam sighed. “I still don’t believe we’re doing this. What kind of favour could you possibly owe him….”

“I don’t owe him, Sam, I didn’t say I did.”

“So he just said it was his birthday and got all pathetic?” Dean asked.

“Sitting right here,” Crowley remarked.

Bobby muttered under his breath and carefully laid down four colour-cards and pushed the requisite little plastic train carriages out on to the route map. “Damn it,” Dean complained. “You’ve cut me off.”

Bobby grinned at him. “So find another way around. You’re a hunter, remember. And no, Crowley suggested a night off and I thought it was a good idea. You need four for this game to work properly. Pass the bottle.”

Several rounds later, they tallied up their points and both Winchesters watched as Crowley , the last to do so, carefully laid out the cards representing completed routes and moved his marker along the board’s edge to end up far in the lead. “Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed. 

“Damn,” Sam agreed.

“I don’t know quite how you did that,” Bobby said, studying the board as though it was some particularly intricate example of demonic warding. “You said you never saw this game before.”

“Beginner’s luck, darling.”

Crowley beamed at him, making Bobby want to laugh, at the same time as it made Sam and Dean steam up. “Never mind, boys, better luck next time,” the King of Hell said generously.”

Bobby asked if anyone wanted another game and got two wordless mutters of refusal. “I’d sooner be on one of your racks in Hell,” Sam observed then in Crowley's direction.

“That can probably be arranged, but for now I’ll settle for heartfelt congratulations and birthday wishes.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Sam said sincerely.

“Without lube,” Dean agreed.

“You boys have no class at all.” The King of Hell sat back in his chair and lifted his glass of quality Scotch, continuing to smile beatifically at the three of them. Bobby got up to make coffee, hearing Crowley start to explain his supposed superior strategy and also how his three opponents could have done much better for themselves in the game, interspersed with requests to shut the fuck up that became increasingly explicit. 

“That’s it, I’m gonna kill him,” Dean yelled and there were sounds of scuffling. Bobby correctly interpreted that Sam had grabbed his brother to prevent him lunging across the table. He set down the mugs he had been about to carry over, turned about and quickly pulled the board out of the way.

Crowley had been packing the pieces industriously away and smiled innocently at him. Bobby shook his head and mouthed, “Stop it!” as he assisted. “You want to change your mind about coffee?” he asked.

“Not a chance, darling, but maybe a nightcap.”

Things had settled between the brothers. Dean shrugged Sam’s grip off, glared and muttered and Sam said, “We better be going.”

“It’s pretty late; don’t you want to stay over and start fresh in the morning?”

“Maybe not,” Sam said. “You want your house still standing after Crowley sets Dean off again?”

“Okay, I guess I see your point.”

He went to the door to farewell the Winchesters and Crowley heard him ask, “That was kinda fun, right? How about we set up a card game instead when you pass back this way after your job?”

“You want to play cards with a _demon_ , Bobby?”

“Come on, he’s not bad company, is he?”

“’Bye, Bobby.”

“We’ll give you a call tomorrow to make sure you haven’t totally lost your marbles.”

“Get lost, Dean.”

Quiet fell and Bobby came back into the kitchen; found Crowley standing, glass in hand. He retrieved his coffee, motioned towards the living area and settled into his armchair, sensing rather than seeing Crowley follow him and sit nearby.

“I thought you were afraid of losing your shirt in a card game with me.”

“And that’d be getting off lightly,” the hunter rumbled. “I don’t know, I’m not so worried about that any more.”

“It gives me something to look forward to, anyway.”

Instead of yelling at him for the innuendo, Bobby laughed. “You’re something else, you know? Why’d you keep talking like that? You’re gonna make me think you’re making a pass at me and that would be a joke.” They sat back, sipped their drinks and considered the conversation.

“Can I tell you something else?” Crowley said, quietly, his voice a dark rasp only just audible. “It would not at all be a joke, I’d mean it, but we can certainly table that for now. I would like to keep visiting you, at mutually agreeable times. I think we could both use some company, on whatever terms. I would like….somewhere to come, to visit. We needn’t discuss our mutual jobs, though I’d be happy to give advice on any matters. I don’t ask the same. I know you wouldn’t be comfortable giving information about hunters to a scion of Hell.”

“You think?” Bobby asked, but it was milder than Crowley had expected. “Well, uh, thanks, I’ll give all of that some thought – later.”

“Of course, Robert.” Crowley smirked at him and Bobby found himself chuckling again.

“Hope you enjoyed your birthday gathering.”

“Oh, I did. Your boys aren’t very good losers though, are they?”

“You cheated.”

“I’m shocked you would think so, Robert!”

They sat in companionable silence for the most part; Bobby mildly surprised at how comfortable it was. It occurred to him that it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have Crowley here fairly often, really. To bounce ideas off, to chat to, to compare booze with and whatever else came up, along the road. It was a crazy, impossible idea, but apart from that, he found he kind of liked thinking about it.

“Mutually agreeable times, huh?” he asked presently. “This weekend suit you?”


End file.
